Saturday, September 21, 2019


The Space Around You At Every Moment Of This World

This is somewhat of a comfort
at a high price
the price of freedom
just try to break
the routine
just you try it
after the war
That's what draws me to them
their wild scratching
and then they sing out
beat hips punk da
da they dare
Focus: berries
They didn't need
to talk about me
it was in their looks
as I trudged with the rugs
washed with goat soap
in the icy lake
we brought them back
they said my legs were pretty
I knew I should hide them
my most useful items
in my toolkit
my basket woven
of the best grasses
twigs I could search for
it was not enough to please them
it would not be what I remembered
it was the rounded loaves
the fish baked inside
little roosters it was called
We lived inside stone circles
to weigh down the tent
now it is called Barras
where it filled with water
my red felt
zigzags at the seams
where my fingers can follow
they have big hooves
for walking
on the crusty snow
Soviet architecture
down in town
where in summer
at the dance pavilion
others gather
Mosquitoes or no mosquitoes
anyway I left them
to their elbows
their stepping shoes
Doghair birch and velvet
cover mountains
beside the patch of H
two oh
even here I start to miss
things absent
from my thoughts
Well I died
nobody noticed
not even the rich the known
nor the poor
not known to them either
The herd has found lichen
here often
pick the best to chew
purple glint eyes golden
In 1496 the familiar
was not
that anymore--
backwards writing
the mill hidden
by all those willows
houses too slanted
to be of any use
color became
something else
around so much water
riches resources
I know green is a color
but that is not green in Duerer's "Willow Mill"
That is the color of electricity and metal sun rain.
J.V. Cunningham
proposes noise
creates all.
the body the bones
look time
in the face,
then erase
this memory.
This might take
some thinking
then forgetting about
the thinking. I got lost
at purposes.
Normally, I should last
until fiction then
want to sneak a peek
at death
towards the very end
without actually
ending up there.
Here lies my white '81 VW Rabbit
rusting just a little bit more
after all that hullaballoo
over the oil
I will join it soon
my rabbity teeth
lost under some tires
or that cheap jack
in the back under
the heavy hatch
everyone slammed too hard
like it was an old pickup
and not the European auto
it was never dying
how it did my youth
The auto junkyard
a lot
up to
possibly volcanic
what happens
in Raymondville
Pie Town
easily Poe Town
& whether it is
beside the Mississippi
or another long place
time is not enough
for life living
it was not stormy
at the graveyard
or the junkyard

--Susan Kay Anderson

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